Reed stood up. “I didn’t think so. The problem is… with just a busted knee, they might figure they can come back for you later. It’s not like you’re going anywhere. But if you’re in danger of bleeding out…”

Reed aimed the muzzle at Spud’s stomach. “This is gonna hurt, but with any luck, you won’t die.” He pulled the trigger.

The bullet entered Spud’s abdomen, slightly right of center, a tiny squirt of blood splashing out of the newly formed hole in his coat. Like the first shot, it sent a shock wave through Spud’s body, and although the second bullet burned hotter than the first, the pain didn’t seem as all-consuming. Maybe he was losing his ability to feel.

Again Pip wailed, his scream piercing the air.

“Goddammit, shut up!” Reed barked. Pip stopped screaming.

Reed leaned close enough so that only Spud could hear what he said next. “One of those bastards following us is Lyle Voight, the father of the woman you killed. He’s a former sheriff and you can bet he’ll have a gun. If you tell him what we did, he’ll kill you. I guarantee you that. The only way you’ll stay alive is if you keep your mouth shut.”

Reed went to Spud’s backpack, pulled out Pip’s sleeping bag, and strapped it to the outside of his own pack. Then he grabbed his son by the arm and disappeared into the woods.

CHAPTER 63

The sound—a crack—had come from somewhere north. It was muffled and weak, barely making it to them, but Max knew right away that it was a gun. He and Lyle stood still and searched the horizon as if the shot might have left a shadow to guide them.

“I think it came from that hill,” Max said, pointing to the ridge on the right.

“I think so too,” Lyle said.

The two men started down the hill and a second shot rang out, clear and crisp. It was still very far away, but definitely coming from the hill on the right. They took off on a dead run. Max slid around trees and crashed through scrub on the way down the slope, his backpack catching on limbs as he pushed through. On the climb up the next ridge, he slowed a bit and tried to step on rocks and lichen to maintain some semblance of stealth.

Traversing the ground between two ridges was a slog. A bird could have covered the distance in a matter of minutes, but it took Max forever to climb the hill, curling around trees, climbing over the dead ones, crawling on his hands and knees when the pines grew too thick. He had lost track of Lyle, and as he neared the top of the ridge he paused to listen for him and heard instead the faint groan of a man. Max unbuckled his pack and slid it to the ground, his shoulders unfolding as the burden fell. He slid the forestock of the shotgun back an inch to confirm the shell in the chamber, then released the safety.